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Cocklepickers. They waded a little way in the water 

and, stooping, soused their bags and, lifting them again, 

waded out. The dog yelped running to them, reared up 

and pawed them, dropping on all fours, again reared up at 

them with mute bearish fawning. Unheeded he kept by 

them as they came towards the drier sand, a rag of wolf’s 

tongue redpanting from his jaws. His speckled body 

ambled ahead of them and then loped off at a calf’s gallop. 

The carcass lay on his path. He stopped, sniffed, stalked 

round it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffling 

rapidly like a dog all over the dead dog’s bedraggled fell. 

Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the ground, moves to one 

great goal. Ah, poor dogsbody! Here lies poor dogsbody’s 

body. 

—Tatters! Out of that, you mongrel! 

The cry brought him skulking back to his master and a 

blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of 

sand, crouched in flight. He slunk back in a curve. 

Doesn’t see me. Along by the edge of the mole he 

lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock. and from under a cocked 

hindleg pissed against it. He trotted forward and, lifting 

again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. 

The simple pleasures of the poor. His hindpaws then 

scattered the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. 

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Something he buried there, his grandmother. He rooted in 

the sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the air, 

scraped up the sand again with a fury of his claws, soon 

ceasing, a pard, a panther, got in spousebreach, vulturing 

the dead. 

After he woke me last night same dream or was it? 

Wait. Open hallway. Street of harlots. Remember. 

Haroun al Raschid. I am almosting it. That man led me, 

spoke. I was not afraid. The melon he had he held against 

my face. Smiled: creamfruit smell. That was the rule, said. 

In. Come. Red carpet spread. You will see who. 

Shouldering their bags they trudged, the red Egyptians. 

His blued feet out of turnedup trousers slapped the 

clammy sand, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven 

neck. With woman steps she followed: the ruffian and his 

strolling mort. Spoils slung at her back. Loose sand and 

shellgrit crusted her bare feet. About her windraw face 

hair trailed. Behind her lord, his helpmate, bing awast to 

Romeville. When night hides her body’s flaws calling 

under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have 

mired. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in 

O’Loughlin’s of Blackpitts. Buss her, wap in rogues’ rum 

lingo, for, O, my dimber wapping dell! A shefiend’s 

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whiteness under her rancid rags. Fumbally’s lane that 

night: the tanyard smells. 

White thy fambles, red thy gan 

And thy quarrons dainty is. 

Couch a hogshead with me then. 

In the darkmans clip and kiss. 

Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, frate 

porcospino. Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. Call away 

let him: thy quarrons dainty is. Language no whit worse 

than his. Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles: 

roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets. 

Passing now. 

A side eye at my Hamlet hat. If I were suddenly naked 

here as I sit? I am not. Across the sands of all the world, 

followed by the sun’s flaming sword, to the west, trekking 

to evening lands. She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, 

trascines her load. A tide westering, moondrawn, in her 

wake. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, blood not mine, 

oinopa ponton, a winedark sea. Behold the handmaid of the 

moon. In sleep the wet sign calls her hour, bids her rise. 

Bridebed, childbed, bed of death, ghostcandled. Omnis caro 

ad te veniet. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his 

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eyes, his bat sails bloodying the sea, mouth to her mouth’s 

kiss. 

Here. Put a pin in that chap, will you? My tablets. 

Mouth to her kiss. 

No. Must be two of em. Glue em well. Mouth to her 

mouth’s kiss. 

His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth 

to her moomb. Oomb, allwombing tomb. His mouth 

moulded issuing breath, unspeeched: ooeeehah: roar of 

cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring 

wayawayawayawayaway. Paper. The banknotes, blast 

them. Old Deasy’s letter. Here. Thanking you for the 

hospitality tear the blank end off. Turning his back to the 

sun he bent over far to a table of rock and scribbled words. 

That’s twice I forgot to take slips from the library counter. 

His shadow lay over the rocks as he bent, ending. Why 

not endless till the farthest star? Darkly they are there 

behind this light, darkness shining in the brightness, delta 

of Cassiopeia, worlds. Me sits there with his augur’s rod of 

ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside a livid sea, 

unbeheld, in violet night walking beneath a reign of 

uncouth stars. I throw this ended shadow from me, 

manshape ineluctable, call it back. Endless, would it be 

mine, form of my form? Who watches me here? Who 

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